


stories are hungry, stories are old

by Ingi



Series: Author's Favorites [9]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Compare and Contrast, Fairy Tale Elements, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Inspired by Richard Siken, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: Imagine, if you will, that somewhere there is a forest—although, to be honest, it is rarely a forest; imagine the most luxurious of the palaces, or the poorest of the villages, and don’t bother thinking of the in-between—, and there are two paths.Imagine four boys, hand in hand by twos.All the ways Fíli and Kíli are like Thor and Loki. And all the ways they really, really are not.





	stories are hungry, stories are old

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fill for [this](https://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18695454) amazing Kink meme prompt, but... it didn't go the way I was planning at all. Huh.  
> (I still have notes for a couple of other ideas for this prompt, so. There might be a remix, or several, in the future.)

Imagine, if you will, that somewhere there is a forest—although, to be honest, it is rarely a forest; imagine the most luxurious of the palaces, or the poorest of the villages, and don’t bother thinking of the in-between—, and there are two paths.

Imagine four boys, hand in hand by twos. Each pair is composed of:

  1. a light-haired boy, the oldest,
  2. his dark-haired sibling, the youngest, and
  3. everything that links them together.



It is all too easy. Stories are hungry, and stories are old, and stories are—in the end, which is all that matters—all the same. Stories want to be told. Riddle me this: the oldest and the youngest walk hand in hand through the forest and there is only one path, Sun and Moon walk hand in hand through the forest, Light and Darkness walk hand in hand, Good and Evil walk-

There are two paths.

The oldest and the youngest walk together through the same forest, but they don’t take the same path. There wouldn’t be a Story, otherwise. Or not one worth telling, in any case—under the words, an undertone: _but_ —.

Which brother takes which path doesn’t matter. Whatever fits the narrative best- only the Story will make it fit, either way, so. Imagine that the Story wants to play this straight. Imagine that the oldest are Sun and the youngest are Moon—this doesn’t matter either, in case you were wondering; the meanings change if the Story fancies them to, as well, although this happens less often, because the narrative is fluid but the meaning is old, almost as old as the stories, and what is old wants to prevail—.

Let me made a side note, here: for these brothers, Sun is always king and Moon is always- not king. What Moon is doesn’t matter. Moon is Moon.

That is often the problem.

There are two pairs of boys and, for the purposes of this story—not Story, not this one—, imagine that there are two paths that are side by side, so each pair can walk, one boy on each path, and keep their fingers laced together over the space between paths. Sun takes one path and Moon takes the other. This is the only way the Story goes. This is why it’s a Story on the first place.

Watch as the boys walk through the forest. They are young, still, but it will not last. It never does.

 

 

 

 _Both of you were born to be kings_.

Later, Thor and Loki sit on a tree in their mother’s garden—hours of play-fighting have left them starving, sweaty, but they feel happier than they were before—and they argue about who will be chosen king, even though they both know it will be Thor. In a manner. Even then, Thor privately suspects that Loki is the better choice and so will be the heir, and deep inside, Loki, equally rational and fervorous, believes the same thing.

“I am the first-born,” Thor says proudly, like it matters. “I am brave. I am strong! I am clever. I will win all the battles and my people will love me.”

“I am all of those things, too,” Loki replies. “I will do all of those things, too.”

And Thor smiles and says,

“No, not all of those.”

At this moment, what he follows it with is _You’re not the first-born_. What he will think to himself, in the following years, is _You’re practical_. _You’re untouchable_. _You’re scheming_. _You will lose many battles to win the war, but only if it suits you_. _Your people will fear you, and distrust you, and because of that you will never call them yours, and they will never want you to_.

For now, they are children, and they know only that they are different—maybe because of the Story, maybe not, but they do not think of this—, but not that it matters.

Sometimes there are whispers in the palace, and they follow Loki in dark corridors and flow into his ear while he sleeps, but Thor is always there with his little fists and his tight hugs and his total incomprehension of anyone not adoring his brother like he does. Sometimes Loki suspects that his own father looks right through him unless he is looking for someone to blame, but he is his brother’s favorite companion and his mother’s softest spot, so why should it matter.

They sit in their tree, and Thor brings down the reddest apples from the branches Loki can’t reach, and Loki makes it rain sparks of fire that will not burn to make Thor laugh in wonder.

 

 

 

 _Erebor, our legacy_ -

Thorin Oakenshield tells his nephews tales about their lost home, their kingdom, their roots. Fíli and Kíli listen, wide-eyed, but when they end they don’t talk about the gold throne in waiting, the empty chambers, the mithril.

They sit on Fíli’s bed and make up their own tales, sometimes about the music and the pride and the armies, but more often about adventures that they will have when they’re older _—or now_ , Kíli insists, because he is who he is, _why wait, now_ —, exploring a world that is new but is safe, is theirs.

Thorin says that Fíli will be king. He tells Fíli himself first, a secret under the light of a candle—a secret that was only unknown to the brothers themselves, as it often goes—and Dís’ wary, loving gaze. Fíli only asks if Kíli will be able to come to Erebor, too. Kíli, when he’s told, shrugs and says that he will find a way to entertain himself when Fíli is busy lording over their people.

“It is a very serious responsibility,” Fíli mutters, after. “Uncle Thorin explained that I will have to learn very fast, and do it very well.”

“Learn and do what?” Kíli asks, already bouncing on his toes. As far as he’s concerned, his brother has gotten the shortest stick, but he's too good not to make it work, turn it into a weapon he can wield.

“Everything,” Fíli replies, somberly.

They are tutored on the same things, by the same tutors. The first lesson they learn is that what Kíli does matters very little, and what Fíli does matters entirely too much.

Neither of them appreciates that lesson. Their mother, when Thorin isn’t around—and often, when he is right in front of her, because she was not born to lose without trying—, talks darkly about envy, and love, and despair.

And paths.

 

 

 

Remember the four boys. In the space between one blink and the next, they have grown, as children are wont to do, but they’re still, in their hearts, the same. As children are wont to do, too—for as long as they can be called such, at least—.

Remember the two pairs. Sun and Moon, walking side by side. Their hands are still holding onto each other, but the grips have changed, now, because the paths are becoming narrower and it is becoming increasingly clear that they do not, in fact, go in the same direction.

This is the moment where the four boys get names. Two of them, at least. This is because they are no longer exact copies. We know, now, that one pair is not the same as the other, although we don’t yet know how, or what they will choose to do when the paths get too far apart to hold on to their brother—we do know that this is a thing that will happen, of course; again, there would be no Story, otherwise—.

Let’s call one pair Left and the other pair Right. It doesn’t matter which is which. It doesn’t mean much. You might as well call them Before and After, or One and Two, because they walk the same paths, but they do so one after the other, after all. But let’s call them Left and Right.

For simplicity’s sake.

Left have chosen to cling to each other’s fingers. Right have wrapped their hand around each other’s wrist. Before, both pairs were side by side, arms brushing, but now they’re holding their arms over the space between the paths, which becomes wider and wider every time.

They are still similar enough that Sun will look at Sun—this is, of course, only a metaphor; everyone knows that Sun cannot look at Sun—and recognize himself, and Moon will look at Moon and recognize himself, too—even though this, too, is a metaphor, for Moon can never look at Moon—.

You might be wondering, at this point, if a Sun looks at the wrong Moon and vice versa, will they recognize each other?

That is a really good question. But it is not part of the Story, so it does not matter.

(No. No they won’t.)

(They never would have. This might possibly—just possibly—be the secret key to unlock the _real_ understanding of this Story.)

(But only if you answer two questions: _how_ and _why_. There is always a trick, you see.)

(Good luck.)

 

 

 

Thor grows golden, and beautiful, and proud. He is loved. He is praised. He is so much light that one day, Loki is walking with him through the palace and suddenly realizes that he has become his brother’s shadow.

He understands the world enough to know that, for every light cast, there has to be an accompanying darkness. He just didn’t expect, somehow, that he would be the latter.

Thor still loves him more than he does anyone else, but he is the only one who loves him at all—his own mind is beginning to play tricks on him, Loki realizes, even this early, thinking of Frigga and of other smaller, gentle presences- his own mind will be his downfall—.

“When I’m king,” Thor says, smiling at the walls like he can see his future there—he can; it’s in the tapestries, full of kings who were light like he is light, or even less bright—, “I will make you my counsellor. Or we will rule together. I haven’t decided, yet.”

“You need me that much, brother?” Loki replies, as his heart grows slightly bitter.

And Thor laughs and laughs and laughs.

“I _do_. And I _want_ you even more.”

Loki is so, so hungry. He will devour anything Thor gives him—anything at all—, and even what he doesn’t.

And Thor, who loves him with a very similar kind of hunger—with the very same strength—, will let him.

 

 

 

When their lessons are over for the day, or sometimes even earlier—if Kíli can be convincing enough, or if Dís is feeling particularly contrary—, the brothers slink away from the most populated areas, go to the forests or the streets in the village that no one walks, and they sit and breathe.

“Don’t listen to Thorin,” Kíli says, because someone has to. And, when Fíli’s eyes are too hard and his muscles are too tense, “You will be great, Fee. I know it like I know my own name.”

“It’s- _so much_ ,” Fíli often sighs.

He is good—he is so, so good, despite the pressure- or perhaps because of it—, and he is bright, and he is loved. But he tends to forget the sound of his own laughter, and the song of his own heart. Meanwhile, his brother—beloved, hurt, underestimated like no one else—dances to the music only he can hear, no matter what they do or say to him.

“But you won’t have to do it alone,” Kíli always replies, as certain as he always is—of everything—.

Their people say he is Fíli’s shadow—and in a way he indeed is, although one of his own making- always one step behind him, always at his back—, that he is small and undeserving, but in their hearts they know that they love him in a way that Fíli will never be able to inspire.

Fíli contents himself with loving him most. And Kíli, because he is who he is—will take kindness, but not love, from those who know only the lies they tell themselves about him—, sets his gaze on his brother and sees nothing else.

 

 

 

In every Story, there comes a moment where a Choice will be made—a _Choice_ , of course, because it is often made by the Story—. Paths diverge, obviously and irrevocably.

If you were wondering: to tell the truth, it is rarely just a _moment_. A Choice takes a moment, and it is central to the Story. But for it to be made, there are thousands and millions of other choices, and not choices, and there is not as much a moment as there is a continuum, but in the end- it is the same.

Imagine the four boys. Imagine Left and Right.

This will only take a moment.

There are two separate, opposite paths now, and it is possible that they meet again at some point, but it is also possible that they don’t. And in any case, walk to the same place through different paths and it no longer is the same place—or- or the same boy—, and they have to let go of their hands, either way.

Left and Right reach the moment when they must make a choice, only it is not a choice at all, but a Choice, and it has already been made for them.

Perhaps.

 

 

 

A throne, and a crown, and ice and green and _blue_ \- magic, spilt blood, the mourning for what slips between the fingers, death, fear, and more death—and this is a different kind, this is _loss_ —.

 

 

 

A throne, and a crown, and darkness and golden and _red_ \- wood-carving and hunting, swords and knives, the mourning for all that was lost and will be lost, pain, fear, and more fear—but this one comes with hushing, and gentle hands that hold tight in desperation—.

 

 

 

It is obvious—we have said so before—that Left and Right can never meet.

(Yes, this is part of why we have chosen to call them Left and Right, and not Before and After, or One and Two. Part of it.)

(Yes, it still doesn’t matter which is which. Much.)

Left and Right can never meet, but if they could, imagine what they would say to each other. Imagine that they are not in the two paths, but sitting on a tree—or sitting on a bed, perhaps—, swinging their feet in the space between them and the ground.

We’ve said so before, Sun and Sun, Moon and Moon, it would never happen. Even less so than Left and Right meeting on the first place.

Ignore this.

Imagine Sun and Sun. The Sun that is part of Left asks, _how do you love him_ , and the Sun that is part of Right answers, _with warmth_. And the first Sun stays silent, because he is thinking, himself, _with hope_ , and he doesn’t quite understand why he doesn’t want to say it out loud, only that he shouldn’t—it wouldn’t feel as right as it feels in his chest, perhaps, or perhaps it’s something else entirely—.

Now imagine Moon and Moon, because in the end, the Story is often made for them—even if it pretends not to, and it tends to, because that is also part of the Story; it sounds confusing because it, indeed, is—. Imagine that Moon and Moon stop swinging their feet and jump to the ground, and look up at Sun and Sun, and lay back against their legs, but they don’t sit again.

The Moon that is part of Left asks, _why did you do it_ , and the Moon that is part of Right answers, _because_. And the first Moon insists, _why_ , and the second Moon will say nothing more than _because_ , and finally, _because I do as I will_. Then the second Moon, the Moon that is part of Right, wants an answer as well—it is a regrettable risk of questions, if you must know: your own might get turned against you—, and the Moon that is part of Left only says, _because I had to_ , and he fully believes it in heart and mind, and the other Moon says nothing else, but he does think, bright and sudden like lightning, _there is always a choice_.

All of this, of course, would never happen.

Left and Right are in the forest, walking the two paths, and it is the moment of the Choice.

We have all been waiting for this, of course.

(We have all been dreading this.)

 

 

 

Thor hides in his brother’s _—brother_ , brother always—old chambers, sits on his brother’s old bed. Sparks of magic familiar like his own hands, barely an echo of what they once were in that room, crackle against his skin.

Loki has forgotten how to walk in the light somewhere between forever and the last few centuries, so he doesn’t. He thinks of two boys sitting in a tree, a half-forgotten memory that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to him—perhaps it doesn’t; it is hard to tell, sometimes—, and then slides down to the ground, back against the wall, and thinks of nothing else.

 

 

 

Fíli’s forehead is tight against Kíli’s, and perhaps one of them should pull away, they should steady themselves, before the branch they’re sitting on breaks under them. But the tree is safer—in terms of quiet, of calm, of how much trust is allowed to be shown—than Erebor is, with all the people and the laughter.

There is also music, like they had imagined—back when they were children and they knew nothing and more than they do now, at the same time—, but for now, the most important song is that of their heartbeats, synchronized.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Kíli mumbles—as he does—gripping his brother’s wrists.

Fíli shifts his head, so his growing smile is pressed against Kíli’s right cheek.

“I know,” he says.

 

 

 

There are four boys and two paths, and you have been wondering—for a while, now—what will happen with it.

It’s inevitable. It’s a Story, it wants to be heard—just like it wants to be _told_ —.

And now the paths definitely and obviously diverge, and it is the moment of the Choice, and this is when Left and Right break apart. It was meant to happen all along.

Let us watch Left, watch them walk, one in each path, and cling to each other’s fingers as they walk further and further apart. You are expecting them to drop their grip, of course. But they don’t, because you have to remember, this grip has been here since the beginning of the Story—earlier, even—, and it would be too easy. It would be too easy.

Sun and Moon keep walking, and walking, and their arms stretch further with each step, and their fingers cling tighter, and it hurts all the more, but they don’t let go. You must be remembering, now, that this is a Story, and every Story is, deep down, a _story_ too.

You must be remembering it, because Sun and Moon walk until they disappear from sight, one in a direction and the other in a different one.

And somehow, their fingers stay laced together.

Now there are two boys and two paths left, and the equation is simple, isn’t it, except that this is a Story. In theory, that should make it extra simple. Which is, of course, why it isn’t.

Now there is only Right, and their hold in each other’s wrists is too steady, and it will be understandable if you’re only now realizing this and indescribable horror is rising up in you, because you know that this will not be pretty to watch. They will either stop walking or rip each other apart.

(This is not what will happen, of course. It would make too much sense. But if it did, just know: the result would be the same, but not the end.)

There are only two boys and two paths left, and Sun is in one and Moon is in the other, but their grip on each other won’t be released. Watch very carefully. This is the moment.

They keep walking, and walking, and suddenly you realize that Sun is slowly but inevitably walking in Moon’s direction, just as Moon is slowly but inevitably walking in Sun’s direction—and you might be thinking, you have no idea of how long this has been happening for, and you may keep thinking it, because this is, possibly, another key—. And one path is the opposite of the other, so Sun and Moon walk out of the paths and meet in the middle.

And you might be thinking, this is not how it works. You know the Story, and this is not it.

If you are given four boys and two paths, two boys will walk one path and the other two will walk the other, and if two of them are Left and the other two are Right, they will of course be split up. It’s a Story. It is old. There is no other Story for this.

Except that you’re looking at two boys that were Right, and were walking two different paths, and were supposed to let go—either of each other, or of something else, perhaps even more vital—, but they didn’t. You’re looking at Sun and Moon and they’re walking on a path that doesn’t exist at all, and their hands are still clasped together.

It’s impossible. _Except_.

Consider this: every Story is, in the end _—deep down_ , under all the weakness and the shame, because a Story is self-aware enough to have and hide those—, a story.

And all stories are born somewhere. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> you, the gentle readers: "what.... what the frickity frack was that."  
> me, the exhausted, sleep-deprived writer: *weeping* I- I don't know.


End file.
